Desert Storm
by SasuNaruForever17
Summary: Operation: Desert Storm. Alfred must help Kuwait in his time of need. For Dmnq8!


**Warning: If you can't handle reading descriptive self-harm, then DON'T READ! Or just skip it, it's short. **

**For **_**Dmnq8**_**, for reason's only she can know ;)**

**Other: Kuwait's name is Consuelo. America's is Alfred which you already know and I didn't give Iraq a name. I wrote this with only a few notes from History class to go off of. The dates are important! Well, sort of… Never mind, you guys don't care!**

Desert Storm

_August 2nd__, 1990_

"Bring it on."

Iraq invaded, guns at the ready. If Kuwait didn't want to stop their crime, so be it.

Consuelo gripped the phone in his hand, listening to the buzzing rings and watching out his window as his country was stormed by the Iraqis.

* * *

><p><em>August 6<em>_th__, 1990_

America had good relations with a lot of important countries. He also had some bad relations with some not so important countries. However, when his boss came to him with news of Kuwait, Alfred was thrilled to hear of the smaller nation.

"So, what's up? How's Con?"

His boss sighed and took a seat, folding his hands in his lap and putting on a stern face.

"Not good, I'm afraid. Iraq has finally found out about Kuwait stealing their oil. They have infiltrated the area as of the second this month. Kuwait has turned to us for help."

America didn't even need to think about the situation and his options. Kuwait was a good friend of his. The oil may have been stolen, but oil was oil, no matter where it came from, and Kuwait was willing to sell it to him. Alfred sat down at his desk and looked up Consuelo's number. When he found it, he looked at his boss.

"I'll find out just how bad it is. Maybe we can let them fight it out on their own for a while."

America's boss nodded and Alfred dialed the number.

* * *

><p><em>January <em>_5th__, 1991_

The ripping pain, like being stabbed in the stomach with scalding hot needles, was all Consuelo could feel. He knew it was the feeling of his country being wounded. Iraq had been attacking Kuwait for about five months now.

Consuelo laid on his bed, breathing hard. It was hot, but he didn't feel the heat. He was freezing, cold sweat covered his shivering body. It had been like this since August. The pain had gotten so bad during October that Consuelo tried everything for a little relief. He prayed everyday, but it didn't seem that his prayers were heard. So he had tried all the drugs he could.

None of them stopped the agony.

Then it was alcohol. That helped a little, until his boss took it away and locked him in his room. So, there was only one thing he could think of to do.

Consuelo had taken a pair of scissors and stared at the shiny metal. He slide his finger slowly over one blade edge, watching as it split his skin. His sleeve was then pulled up, delicate chocolate flesh put on display. Consuelo clenched his hand into a fist, watching his veins pop up, then relax back down. Would this work?

The opened scissors was laid across his wrist. His heart beat loudly in his ears as the blade was dragged across. Consuelo bit back a harsh gasp and closed his eyes tight. Once one mark was complete, he made another, then another, until there were three perfect cuts on his wrist.

Consuelo opened his eyes and stared at the scarlet mess of his arm. He felt like throwing up, but he didn't. He watched his blood, _his country_, flow from the self-inflicted wounds. Then lightheadedness hit him hard, and everything went black.

When Consuelo woke up, he was in his bed, throbbing wrist wrapped in a stark white bandage. His eyes searched the room desperately for any means of escape, but found none. Then the pain in his stomach was back, making Consuelo curl in on himself. He wished death would take him in that haunting embrace. Let Kuwait fall, just end this madness.

* * *

><p><em>January 16<em>_th__, 1991_

The cuts on Consuelo's wrists had healed, though scars remained. The pain in his stomach was significantly lessened for a change. There was a note on his table in scrawling Arabic. He read it.

'_America has launched an air assault on Iraq. They are coming through for us.'_

Consuelo found the energy to smile before falling into a dreamless asleep.

* * *

><p><em>February 23<em>_rd__, 1991_

"So, the troops are in? Great! They'll destroy that bastard Iraq in no time!"

Alfred's boss had just informed him on the matter of progress in Kuwait and he felt a sudden rush. Kuwait would be on his feet in no time at all.

* * *

><p><em>February 28<em>_th__, 1991_

America and Iraq sat across a table from each other, faces expressionless. Alfred looked at his notes, going through the information he had. Finally, he proposed a solution.

"Can we agree on a ceasefire?"

Iraq took his time in going with it. After they got done signing all the important papers, they parted ways without any more words said.

* * *

><p><em>March, 1991<em>

Kuwait was back to as normal as he was ever going to be. The pain was gone, but Consuelo didn't feel like celebrating. He didn't understand how nations could cope with the distress of war. It was too much, and he hoped he'd never have to feel that chaos again.

Consuelo ended up writing a long letter to Alfred. In it, he explained how he had felt, and how strong America must be for being able to deal with bigger, more conflicting wars. He showered the superpower with praise and adoration until there was nothing left to say.

* * *

><p>Alfred read the letter several times, his grin getting bigger and bigger each time it was re-read. That Kuwait was really something all right.<p>

As he looked up from the letter, America's boss came in, holding a milk crate full of papers.

"Have to start preparing for the election!"

Alfred rolled his eyes; all of his bosses were the same crazy old men around election time.

"Come on George, let's leave it be for today."

His boss complained, but Alfred was too busy reading the last line of Consuelo's letter once more.

'_Thank you for giving a damn about a country no one cares about.'_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hmm… So, were six lines of notes enough to make a story? Well, I tried! Hope you at least find it a little amusing~ ( I didn't mean to be so harsh on Kuwait. Don't take it personally!)  
><strong>


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